


Reality

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode Related: Sentinel Too, First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strong shot of reality for one of Cascade's finest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality

**Author's Note:**

> All right, if you guys couldn't tell by now, I am a Rafebabe. He's gonna be in my stories, just accept that. Of course, in my thinking, Rafe belongs with Simon, which is why in all these little ones where I pair him with someone else, he's just not destined for happiness. I like the guy, I don't like hurting him like this. But oh, well. 
> 
> I'm not too sure if this story would be R or NC-17, so I played it safe. This is also a POV piece, and I'm pretty new to those. Be gentle. 

## Reality

by Lucy Hale

* * *

I used to not believe in unrequited love. 

See, despite being a cop, and a man, I'm something of a romantic. I always assumed that if true love really existed, then both people would feel it. That makes sense, doesn't it? The deep, mystical love that the ancient Greeks wrote epics about; the love that drove the Persian poet Jalal ad-Din ar-Rumi to compose the twenty-six hundred couplet poem Masnavi for his lover. 

Okay, so I know strange things for a cop. There _was_ life before the Academy. 

Hell, Blair Sandburg's practically a cop by now, and look at the crazy things he knows. 

But I digress. 

My theories on love were grand, yeah, but I am a man. I had no problem getting in a lot of practical experience with people I knew full well I wasn't in love with. 

But when the Big One hit, I was ready to give it all up and devote myself to that one person. A romantic, remember? 

Oh, I should say before I go on, just so there's no surprises: I'm gay. 

Yeah, a romantic, gay cop who loves poetry. A back-door Billy with a gun in one hand and a worn copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets in the other. The world's full of contradictions. You just have to know where to look. 

So now I can tell you that it was a man that knocked my socks off. A fellow cop. Not a poet, and to my knowledge not a romantic. Probably added to the appeal -- I've always been a glutton for punishment. Why else would I have spent the better part of a year lusting after the straightest man I've ever seen in my life? 

What can I say about Jim? He's not like me at all. He's intense, serious. He loves privacy, and he's happy just doing his job. He's got a different lady every week. 

Glutton for punishment. 

I'd have had better luck with his partner. Blair wasn't my type, really, maybe because it was so much more possible with him. He was friendly, emotional, open-minded. Too easy. 

I suppose. To tell the truth, I don't know why Jim does it to me and no one else can. I just know the minute I saw the gruff cop, I thought he was the sexiest thing on two legs. As time passed, I realized I'd do pretty much anything to get him in bed. With more time, it changed to the realization I'd do anything to just get him to look at me with the affection he looks at Blair with. With more time, and more longing, I'd have done anything just to get him to look at me at all. 

Pretty recently I stumbled across the sudden knowledge that he wouldn't even have to look at me -- I just wanted to see him smiling. I wanted to make Jim Ellison smile. That was it. I didn't need credit for it, or any other reward. Just a smile. He didn't smile enough. 

So suddenly the works of Jalal ad-Din ar-Rumi made a lot more sense to me, and I realized what I was feeling was probably It. The Big One. I lost all interest in other people. In fact, I hadn't slept with anyone for a good six months before...well, that comes later. 

Still. Six months. It had to be love, right? 

And in all that time, I never got around to becoming even his friend. He was always out with Blair or the Captain, always solving these unbelievably wild crimes in record time, always _out_ somewhere. And me and H had our own thing going. Not anywhere as spectacular, of course, and a lot of times we played gopher for Jim -- finding files, making phone calls, checking records. 

Want to know something funny? I've been hurt twice so far in the line of duty, and both of them were Jim's cases. 

But I digress again. I think I'm stalling. God knows why. I'm the one that started this whole soul-revealing thing, and now I'm hesitating. 

Well, to my credit, I do know what's coming. I think stalling is perfectly natural. 

Okay. Enough is enough. I'll talk about The Night now. 

The Night. The Big One. Is it a sign of love that you think in capital letters? 

Anyway, Jim was drunk off his ass. A rare thing for him, but he'd been acting strange lately all around. According to station gossip, he'd kicked Blair out of the apartment they shared. Things were definitely tense around the station, with Jim pulling this completely out-of-line territorial desk thing, yelling at everyone, generally being an asshole. 

I wanted to make him smile. Well, we've been through that, but this was serious. He was hurting, and I really thought he should be smiling. So I suggested a night away from the station. 

Jim looked at me like I was nuts, which wasn't surprising. Like I said, we weren't friends. 

I just grinned casually. "You look like you could use an excuse to get screaming drunk, and I can be a designated driver." 

He agreed then. Fast, actually. He must have been thinking along those lines himself, and my offer to baby-sit was just convenient. 

So we left the station in my car and went out to some whole in the wall bar with two grainy TVs that were _always_ playing some football game. Two AM Christmas morning I'd bet this place had a game on. God knew how they did it, but they did. 

Anyway, Jim takes about ten minutes to get completely buzzed. I was a bad designated driver -- I had about two beers in the time it took him to finish out half a bottle of Jack and probably what amounted to twenty ounces of Coke. He didn't believe in moderation, I learned. At least not that night. 

So after only forty-five minutes in this place, he was done for the night. To my credit, he _was_ smiling. Consistently. Like a complete idiot. Like I've never seen him smile before. Smiling and laughing and acting like I was the greatest human being in the world. 

In a sick way, it made me feel great. Horny as hell, but I could take care of that later. 

I helped Jim stagger into the car, and drove him back to his place. Luckily I had been there once or twice, and didn't have to rely on slurred directions. 

In typical drunken-farce fashion, we stumbled up the stairs together. I wasn't drunk, but I was happy, and he was heavy, so I stumbled right along with him. 

I took his keys and unlocked the loft. The light went on, and there was nothing there. Nothing at all. It was completely empty of furniture, decoration, everything. 

"Wow," I said in typical dumb-ass-me style. "Sandburg took everything?" 

Jim laughed like I was on stage with a mic doing stand-up. "'e's gone." 

"Yeah, I heard about that. Where's your bed, Jim?" 

Oh lord, how long had I wondered that? 

"Up. Stairs." 

"Shit. I have to lug you up more steps? You think you can help out a little bit this time?" 

"Shure, buddy." 

I tried to stay calm as he came over and practically fell into my arms so I could support him. I remembered that he was drunk easily, and wondered if he would remember any of this in the morning. I wondered if I could just stand there and hold him for a while, and trust the alcohol to wipe it from his memory. 

I'm a chicken, though, so I didn't. I started for the stairs. 

"Rafe?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Yer's a real pritty...pretty guy. Ya know?" 

I must have stood there for ten seconds, just gaping. "What?" 

"Ya are. Ya dress nice. Ya smell nice." 

Oh, Jesus help me. I couldn't have answered that if I tried. Instead I just started moving again, getting him up the stairs with some struggle. Luckily, even wasted Jim was still together enough to put one foot in front of the other. He had a problem with balance, but not movement itself. 

We made it up the stairs, and there was this huge bed waiting for us. 

I couldn't help the mental images that flashed over me as I sat him down. The two of us were alone, in his bedroom, and I'd been wanting for so long... 

Well, as soon as Jim sat down, his idiot smile faded. "Rafe?" 

Bloody hell. "What now, man? I'm gonna get your shoes off, okay?" 

"'kay. Rafe, I don wanna sleep." 

"No?" I got his shoes off easily and looked up at him from where I was crouched. On my knees. In front of him. 

I'm sorry, okay? I can't help it. 

Anyway, he had this strange look on his face. "No. I have dreams." 

"What kind of dreams?" 

"'bout animals and jungles. And sex." 

"Sex?" I swallowed, getting off my knees fast. These circumstances were all coming together a little too close to temptation, and I had to fight it. I decided to sit, about a foot away from him. 

"Mmm hmm." Jim turned glazed eyes to me and grinned again suddenly. It was different than his huge drunk-grin, but a lot more frightening to me. "Ya think I can stay awake?" 

"Um. I dunno, Jim. You want me to make some coffee?" 

"Uh uh." He inched closer. "Yer bein' a good friend." 

"Thanks." I was uncomfortably close to him now. On his bed, in his apartment, alone with him. And he had that look in his eyes. Could I help getting aroused? I don't think so. 

And he shouldn't have noticed my condition, given his own. But he did. And he grinned even wider. "Ya smell like it." 

"Like what?" God, you don't know how hard it was to stay casual. 

"Sex." A look flared in his eyes suddenly, wild and primitive, and a second later he was on top of me, knocking me back on the bed and landing right over me. 

I was stunned, but not so stunned that I didn't notice or respond to the fact that his mouth was on mine, demanding an entry. I opened to him -- it was my dream come true. It was my six-month fast come to an end, for exactly the reward I'd been going for. 

I tasted alcohol, the sweet syrup of soda, and...well, that was about it. Maybe they're right about people having their own distinct taste, but I think Jack was overpowering Jim. 

Still, it was better than I ever imagined. It shot right to my groin, the feeling of it. I let him probe my mouth, I felt his tongue going everywhere at once, staking me out and making a claim, and I loved every second of it. 

Did it occur to me to stop him because he was drunk? To be honest, it didn't. From that first kiss, I wasn't thinking about anything but how we were there together, and it was what I always wanted. And maybe it was what Jim needed. 

God, I was thinking all kinds of thinks when he was jerking our clothes off. I was thinking he wouldn't be doing this unless he'd been longing for me too. Jim Ellison wouldn't have done this with anyone he didn't love. Right? 

Love makes us believe some strange things. 

He was clumsy once we were both naked and he was lying over me. His hands fumbled everywhere. He managed to turn me on my stomach, and suddenly I knew what was coming. 

He was going to fuck me. Jim Ellison was actually going to be inside of me. 

I became more aroused than I could ever remember being in my life, and just like before he seemed to smell it on me. He went nuts, sticking his fingers in me almost roughly as he humped my thigh. 

It had been a while for me, and I hadn't done a lot of bottoming, and it hurt. I put it out of my mind, though, reminding myself how lucky I was to even be there. 

He didn't waste a lot of time. Once he thought I could take him, the fingers were gone and he was shoving in to me. 

I didn't fight, I didn't tense up. It sliced into me like a knife, but I figured that feeling would fade. I encouraged him by moving my hips and making little noises. 

He moved fast and rough, his hands digging into my arms as he pumped into me. The sounds that came out of his mouth were animalistic, no coherent words to be found. It kept hurting, but it was Jim, and eventually I could feel something that felt like an orgasm coming. 

He reached his end fast, almost slamming me through the mattress the last time before he stopped and I could feel heat exploding inside me. 

That feeling, and the knowledge of what it was, made me come. 

He pulled out as roughly as he'd gone in, and this time I couldn't hide a little protesting sound. If he even heard it he was beyond caring, and a minute later he was out cold. 

I sat up slowly, and discomfort washed over me. I would be sore the next day. Hell, I was already sore. I had to figure out what to do. 

Looking back, my mind wasn't functioning properly. I was so spun around with love and hormones and stupidity that I crawled over and dropped down beside him, letting myself make the mistake of falling asleep. 

I woke up, and he was there. Still sleeping. The feeling that went through me seeing that was incredible. I was waking from a dream, and he was actually there. 

I smiled like I was the one with a bottle of Jack in me. My heart was growing inside my chest. When I shifted and the pain went through me again, I didn't even mind it. I told myself that this was just the first time, and bad circumstances. Jim had let himself open up to me, and now it would be better. We would do it again, take our time, when he was sober enough to enjoy it. 

I put my hand on his muscular chest. He was paler than me, and the contrast made me grin even bigger. 

"Jim?" I kept my voice low, knowing he'd have a full-scale Philharmonic blasting away in his head. 

He shifted, mumbling something. 

"Jim?" 

His eyes opened slowly, and at the first crack of light they slammed shut again and his hands went to his head. "Oh my God," he whispered faintly. 

I smiled at his pain. "You want some aspirin?" 

The sound of my voice seemed to surprise him, and he shut his eyes for a moment, not moving. When they opened again, his hands dropped and he looked directly over at me, not even seeming to notice the light. 

I was impressed. I didn't know some people could just turn down a dial on a hangover. 

"Rafe?" 

I grinned up at him. "Morning." 

He looked down at himself. At his lack of clothes. And then at me and mine. He looked at the huge smile on my face, and a shiver went through him. 

That shiver was unmistakable. As much as I would have wanted to tell myself it was lust, or his memories coming back, or anything else, it wasn't. 

It was revulsion. Disgust, pure and simple. 

"Oh, shit," he said just to make it worse. 

My smile vanished, and my expanding heart shrank down to marble-size, leaving a hollow hole. 

"Oh fucking Christ. Rafe, shit. Uh, look, you have to get out of here." Jim was suddenly up and moving, finding my clothes and throwing them to me. "What the fucking Christ was I...shit. I'm sorry, man. Look, this never happened. You don't tell anybody, you got me?" 

I couldn't breathe. I felt like my world was caving in around me. Stupid, romantic me. "Jim, it's okay," I said in a faint voice I didn't even recognize. 

He turned a glare to me. "How the hell is it okay?" His eyes caught on my nakedness, and he shuddered and turned away. "God, look, just get out of here. I'm taking a shower. Just be gone when I'm out." 

"Yeah," I said hoarsely. 

"This didn't happen, you hear me? Nothing fucking happened here." 

I was quiet, so he looked back at me long enough for me to nod. Then he was gone, shooting down the stairs and practically running for the shower. To wash me off of him. 

I don't remember dressing and leaving. I don't remember the drive home. I really don't remember much about that day as a whole. 

You know what I do remember? I remember thinking that when his panic and disgust dies down, he'll remember that when he woke up I was smiling at him. 

He'll know I wanted it. He'll know exactly how I feel. And I'll have to face him and his blue-eyed revulsion at the station every day. 

As horrible as it is for me to say, I got lucky. Blair was killed. 

I don't mean it that way. I mean, Blair almost died, Jim saved him, and almost right after that he and Simon left for Sierre-Somewhere to go after the woman who attacked Blair. 

So I didn't have to see him much. And I had time to compose myself, to go back to the station and act like I was still living and breathing and the same as I was the week before. 

Henri noticed something was wrong, but he's easily distracted and I got him worrying about Blair instead. 

When Jim finally got back, he and I didn't say much to each other. He and Blair were back to normal. Blair was back at the loft, Jim was looking at him with affection again. 

I stayed the hell away from him. From both of them. Except when I couldn't, and those times I put a smile on my face and didn't make any eye contact at all. 

* * *

So no. I don't belief all love is requited. I'm still sure of what I feel for him, even though I can't make him smile anymore. 

If this was one of the poems I'm so crazy about, I'd react differently. Maybe I'd kill myself in a grief of loss. Maybe he'd change his mind and come running to me. Maybe I'd spot someone out of the blue and feel something even stronger, even more definable as love. 

But. Just my luck, I'm faced with reality. I still feel the same, and he still feels the same, and it's never going to change. 

Despite all that, I'm still a romantic. I still read Shakespeare and the Masnavi, and wonder if that form of love died out with the poets who felt it. 

I hope not. I hope there's something like it out there somewhere, something that maybe another person would feel towards me the way I feel it towards them. 

And Jim? He's still not a romantic. He's still got a different woman on his arm every week. At least he doesn't make a point of introducing them to me. That would be a little too humiliating. If I wanted humiliation I would meet his eyes when he looked at me. 

So that's it. I'm stuck now. Life sucks, things don't happen the way you want them to, and here I am. I've learned to have a sense of humor about the whole thing, really. You know, I'm back on my self-imposed fast, not meeting new people, not having any sex at all. I don't think I hope he'll come around, or even get wildly drunk again. I think that maybe the memory of it just hurts too much right now. 

When that gets too much for me, I watch him when he doesn't realize it, and wonder if he still thinks I'm a real pretty guy. 

And then I can smile. 

* * *

End

 


End file.
